shake me from my sleep (tell me it was all a dream)
by splendidlyimperfect
Summary: Baz is having a nightmare, and Simon helps him wake up.


**Simon**

Baz is dreaming again.

Ever since he got back from Merlin-knows-where two weeks ago, he's been having nightmares. He's always been a light sleeper (every time I try to crack the window open, he's awake and complaining about it, even if he was snoring a second before). I've only heard him talk in his sleep a few times before, and it's always rubbish – "don't feed the turnips," or "tell the Queen to cook the cabbage rolls."

This time, he looks scared. He's curled up on one side with both hands tucked into fists under his chin, and every few seconds he makes a sound that's almost a whimper.

I try to tune him out and keep reading. It's not my business – he's evil and he's probably dreaming about evil things. Although, he hasn't really been very evil lately. Probably because of the truce, because as much as he's a prat, he won't go back on his word.

I get a few more pages into my book and then Baz whispers, "please," in a voice that I don't recognize. It's soft and trembly and he sounds a bit like a little kid. It's hard to picture Baz being little – was his hair that ridiculous when he was a baby? Was he always pale and sneering, or did he have fat cheeks and chubby hands? Was he—

"Please," Baz whispers again.

.

**Baz**

The worst part about these kinds of dreams is that no matter what I do, I can't wake myself up.

Usually my nightmares are full of fire and blood, and my mum's eyes closing while my neck burns. They're more like memories than dreams, and they hurt, sure, but it's nothing I can't handle.

Ever since the numpties, though, the dreams have been dark. No matter how wide I open my eyes, I can't see anything, just black that goes on and on forever in each direction. I can't move and everything hurts, and it's hard to breathe.

It's not real, I think, but there's nothing I can do to wake myself up. It feels so real – the chill and the dirt and the suffocating smell of wet earth and dried blood. I try to pinch my arm, but my hands are so cold I can't feel them.

Even thinking about Snow doesn't help. When I was there, it was the only thing that kept me sane. But now, even when I picture his stupid blue eyes or the moles I want to kiss, I still feel small and terrified.

I didn't want to beg. Fiona would disown me (probably make me sit in the trunk, not just the back seat) if she knew how I'd given in, had whispered, "please," over and over because I couldn't fucking breathe...

.

**Simon**

It could be a trick. What if I move closer and he grabs at me, or tries to bite me? He has tried to kill me before. (Although not recently.) Does the truce apply when we're sleeping? What if he's dreaming about killing me and he wakes up and finishes the job?

Baz mumbles something else, then makes a choked sound, like he can't quite catch his breath. It doesn't sound like he's dreaming about killing me.

I set my book down on the bed (yes, I dog-ear the page and yes, Penelope will kill me for it later), then slide down onto the floor and sit cross-legged next to Baz's bed. Pieces of his hair fall across his face as he takes another choked, shuddering breath.

"Baz," I whisper. I don't want to touch him. Last time Agatha tried to wake me from a nightmare, I nearly blew up the couch. "Baz," I try again. "Wake up."

.

**Baz**

A voice breaks through the panic and the darkness, and of course it's Simon fucking Snow. The Chosen One. The hero.

Part of me wants to tell him to go fuck himself, and the other part desperately needs out of this godforsaken coffin, pride be damned. I try to kick at the edge, to push the lid off, but I still can't move.

"Baz. Wake up."

Right. This isn't real. Which means Simon isn't really here, it's just my deranged imagination dragging him out to rescue me. (Because the world loves irony, and me being in love with Simon is the most excruciating joke it could play.)

.

**Simon**

Clearly this isn't working, because Baz's eyes are still closed and he's digging his nails into his palms now, hard enough to leave little half-moon divots in his skin. He's still breathing odd, and I'm a bit worried he's having an attack, like the ones Mick at the home used to have when he'd run a bit too hard.

I chew my lip. Penny'd told me once about this spell she used to help the kids sleep when they had bad dreams, but I can't remember the words. (Plus, with my luck, I'd just as likely put Baz in a coma.) (Which really wouldn't be that bad if I hadn't promised to help him. And I'm not sure if the Anathema would let me do it anyway.)

"Wake up," I try one more time, and when there's no answer, I reach out carefully and touch the back of his hand.

.

**Baz**

There's a spark in the darkness, and I suddenly feel like I'm on fire (which, as a vampire, is definitely Not a good thing). There's a sharp pain on the back of my hand, and it runs up my arm like wildfire, tearing through nerves and burning back the darkness.

Then I'm awake, and Simon bloody Snow is sitting on the floor next to my bed.

I open my mouth to tell him to sod off, but I can't breathe, and I realize that I'm crying.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

"Baz, what—"

I shake my head, pushing myself up (I can feel my arms again, thank Crowley) and taking a deep, gasping breath. Simon just sits there, staring at me like a prat, and he's...

...glowing.

"Wh..." I can't talk, can't ask him what the fuck is happening, can't breathe around this tightness in my chest. The room is dark and he's glowing, like the fucking sun, like the Chosen One he is.

And he's beautiful.

.

**Simon**

Baz looks like he's going to be sick.

"Are you going to faint?" I ask, and if Baz wasn't half-asleep and struggling to breathe, I'm pretty sure he would have just ended me right there. Instead, he shakes his head and grips the blanket in his fingers, staring at me as he takes short, sharp breaths.

"You..." He manages the one word, then chokes on another breath and brings his hand up to cover his mouth.

Oh.

Baz is crying.

Now I have absolutely no bloody idea what to do, because this isn't the kind of situation I ever expected to find myself in – sitting on my bedroom floor, next to my mortal enemy, who's crying after a night terror. (I didn't even know Baz could cry.)

He takes another shaky breath, then another, and he's still staring at me like he's never seen me before. Can nightmares cause amnesia? Maybe I should get Penny.

I'm about to stand up when Baz finally manages, "You're glowing."

I frown and look down at my hands, and sure enough, he's right. It's a warm, golden light that sort of reminds me of Rapunzel – you know, in the movie, where her hair glows and she saves Flynn? (It was on Netflix, and my summer was boring. Sue me.)

"I am," I say after a moment.

"Why?"

"I'm... not sure."

.

**Baz**

"You're an idiot," I manage, trying to rub at my face without drawing too much attention to the fact that I can't stop fucking crying. "How are... why..."

"I was just trying to wake you up," Simon says, frowning at his hands. The light flares up a little more, pushing the night away, and it makes it a bit easier to breathe.

This is real. Not the dark, not the mold and the damp and the stale blood. I'm in my room, in my own bed, with the stupid, perfect boy I love lighting up the night.

Snow stands up slowly, still staring at his arms. "Sorry," he says quietly, and the light starts to dim. Before I can stop myself, I shout, "Don't!"

It brightens again, and I can see the puzzled shadows on Snow's face as he looks back at me. I groan, pulling my knees to my chest and dropping my face into my arms. Maybe I'm still dreaming. Maybe this is all a nightmare.

The bed dips next to me and I flinch.

"Baz?"

I should have listened to Fiona. I should have stayed away.

"Go away," I mumble. I'd shove Snow off the bed, but I'm shaking so badly that I'd probably miss and fall on my own face instead.

.

**Simon**

When I reach out and touch Baz's hand again, I expect him to push me away. He hates me, after all, even if we're tolerating each other out of necessity. And he's clearly embarrassed – I would be too, if he caught me crying.

Baz doesn't move, though. In fact, he shifts his hand so our fingertips are touching, and it makes my stomach do something odd.

"Are you... all right?" I ask, which I know is a stupid question, but I'm not sure what else to say.

Baz shakes his head.

"What can I do?" I ask. The light seemed to help a bit, so I focus on it, trying to make it brighter. I'm still not sure why I'm glowing, but right now it doesn't really matter. The soft glow shifts, threads of silver and gold spilling down across my arms and toward my fingers where I'm touching Baz.

Suddenly the light is around both of us, and Baz is gazing at me. He's paler than usual, and his eyes are red, and he looks... relieved.

"That help?" I ask, and I get my answer when he slowly, hesitantly, slides our fingers together.

.

**Baz**

I'm holding Simon Snow's hand.

The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to get out of here, to spell Snow away and leave the tower. Go home. Hide.

But it's so dark, and Simon is so bright and warm, and I'm so, so tired.

.

**Simon**

Baz doesn't push me away, and I don't let go of his hand. The sharp edges that usually spark between us are gone, rounded by the night and the golden glow that surrounds us. The frantic gasping from earlier is gone, and Baz's breathing evens out, slow and steady, to match mine.

"Better?" I ask, and he doesn't answer, but he squeezes my hand just enough to let me know he's heard me. His fingers are cold (I'm not surprised), and when he shivers, I shift a little closer to him. He lets me.

We don't talk. I desperately want to ask him what happened, what he was dreaming about, why he was crying. But the peace between us right now is held in place by a fragile thread, and I'm pretty sure anything I say will snap it.

It feels like hours later when Baz whispers a sleepy, "Thank you." Before I can respond he's asleep – head against my cheek, hand in mine, snoring softly as the inexplicable light around us shifts and glows.

For the rest of the night, he doesn't dream.


End file.
